With something drifting and something shifting, the earth still held the sky.

Monday, September 14, 2009

Not really poetry, almost pulp

A wounded birdA hurtful wordA sarcastic smileAn unused pileHaggard summersAnd rims of rustBloated nightsAnd fingernail dustTasteful sludge and mucky bloodSearing sermons in an explosive floodgolden flowers with Jules WinnfieldTo urge and push and use to yieldMagenta slits on the wifey's wristVincent Vega and the twisttrippy dreams and vanilla shakesMarsellus' fiefdom in smokes and quakesSnaky music that twists the brainAnd haunts and hurts like acrylic rainPulverizing shocks and beautifully soWhat were you thinking, tarantino?

on a clear night, you see THAT movie sparkiling in its own constellation of unprecedented genius...a constellation of one